


Softer Than Scrap Metal

by dearxalchemist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearxalchemist/pseuds/dearxalchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's wearing those awful sunglasses again, dancing, and inviting him in to her warm arms. Gaby looks good in his clothes and it's a sight that will never get old even as their missions get long and dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softer Than Scrap Metal

She’s wearing those awful sunglasses again. The day has ended, their mission is still ongoing, but she’s unwinding. The radio is on louder than it should be and she’s dancing in the worst way possible, wearing his oversized turtleneck on her tiny frame. His sweater ends somewhere along her thighs and when she moves he can see the flash of satin, making his cheeks color and Gaby just carries on. She dances in a small circle, crystal tumbler in her hand full of a dark amber liquid. Illya leaves his novel on the table, page side down to hold his place and stands. Gaby crooks her finger at him and the tall Russian shakes his head slowly.

“Nyet.” He murmurs to her and her lips turn down into a small pout. She doesn’t stop moving, taking a step forward, hips moving. Gaby is a constant state of motion, always moving forward and never back. She kissed him first in Madrid and he followed that kiss with another one in Paris. Everything else fell into place. After nearly a year together on the team, they only grew closer. She made him weak and he ignored that fact, pushed all his KGB training to the back of his mind and focused only on her.

“Illya,” She breathed out his name over the edge of her glass before she finishing it off. Gaby finished the last bit of the alcohol before setting the glass down on the edge of the couch, moving with the music still. Her hands outstretched towards him. She took a hold of his arms and pulled him forward. For a very large man, he moved very easily for her. She lifted his arms and circled under them for a moment. The music picked up into one of those fast-pace beats and he had to bite back a laugh when she spun back to face him, smiling. She looked ridiculous in those glasses, dancing in between beams of moonlight spilling on the hotel floor. He stepped forward and Gaby danced back a few more paces. She had dancer’s legs and once told him of her childhood behind the wall, the ballet lessons. Then as quickly as she backed away, she ran back to him. He caught on to her waist and lifted her up, turning slightly from her momentum. The sunglasses slipped down the bridge of her nose and she smiled, lips threatening to let a laugh free as he held onto her. Pieces of her soft hair fell down against his forehead and cheeks as she tilted her head down. He turned her so he could see her better in the pale light coming from the windows. His back to the glass and Gaby leaning over him as she slipped her hands against his shoulders and his own gripped down at her thighs exposed from his sweater. The music from the radio was nothing more than background noise as his heart started to pick up it’s pace, beating hard against his rib cage. Gaby licked over her bottom lip and Illya mirrored her move, pulling her down carefully with his grip on her legs, tilting his head back and meeting her for the inevitable kiss. Her lips just barely touched his own before the sound of glass shattering broke through the radio’s music. Illya’s hands on her legs tightened and then they were falling. Gaby’s back hit the carpet first, pain radiating from her back and side as Illya crushed her with his weight for a moment.

Gunshots sounded throughout the hotel room. Several of them, so many that Gaby lost count. All she could feel was Illya’s hot breath on the column of her throat, she could feel him caging his arms over her, keeping her on the ground. She moved a hand up and wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck, dragging him down. Adrenaline pulsed through her belly, fear kicking in just as she felt the first bit of heat seeping through, into the turtleneck she wore. Glass was littered along the floor, sparkling like glitter in the moonlight and as soon as the gunshots had started, they ended with the sound of rubber burning in the street below.

“Illya,” Gaby panted his name, fingernails running over the back of his neck, pushing him up for a moment. The front of his blue pajama top was quickly turning red. Something in her stomach turns sour and Gaby bites back a sob. “Illya!” His name sounds almost hysterical coming from her as she pulls herself out from under him. Blood is soaking into his back. The color red bright against his blue shirt makes her panic. She feels her fingers shaking as she smooths her hand along his back, careful of the wound, pulling his shirt up. It sticks to his skin and she hears him hiss out in pain as she takes a look. There’s a brassy colored piece of metal stuck in his back, under his right shoulder blade and the skin around the wound is dark and angry.

Illya tries to move now, his hands brace down on the carpet but Gaby pushes him back down, “No, stay.” Her voice is surprisingly strong as she makes herself move. Her bare feet are cut up from the glass as she all but sprints across the hotel room. She doesn’t bother going for the phone or yelling for Solo, she’s sure he heard the commotion from his own hotel room. Instead she goes for the liquor cart and then the bathroom. Gaby grabs all the spare towels she can and finds a pathetic first aid kit under the sink. It barely has anything in it, but it will help some. When she comes out of the bathroom, Illya has moved himself. He’s managed to crawl on all fours around the front of the couch. Gaby dumps all her supplies into the arm chair before moving to help him onto the couch. His skin is cool and clammy, a fine layer of sweat already starting at his forehead. She wipes it away and mutters a soft curse in German as the red spot on his back blooms wider.

“Gaby,” His voice is low, “Is okay, get my case.” He is waving his hand towards the bedroom but Gaby ignores it as she pulls at the seam of his shirt until it breaks. She tears the fabric away and is up again, she gets hot water from the bathroom and soaks one of the towels in it before pouring vodka carefully over the spot on his back. The Russian man doesn’t yell, but his voice is tense and accent thick. He grips the couch so tight his knuckles turn bloodless and Gaby is barely holding onto her nerves when the door opens. She stands, ready to hurl the vodka bottle at the intruder but Napoleon announces himself before she can. Her brown eyes are flooding with tears as she motions to their comrade.

“Solo,” She points at Illya and Napoleon is crossing the room quickly. Illya’s breathing is growing more and more shallow, his hands are shaking and Gaby is losing her strong demeanor. She feels weak and her stomach is queasy. This is no place for a mechanic, her hands are rough from years of tearing apart and piecing cars back together, but Illya is not a car. Illya is a warm blooded human being, made of much softer things than scrap metal. Napoleon though has very good hands. He is there before Gaby can explain anymore. The American heard the gunshots from his own room, instead of running after the perpetrators though, he headed for his partners. A year ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about Gaby or Illya, but now, they’re something much closer. In the right light, they almost resembled a family.

Napoleon’s hands are so good, he manages to get the bullet out. He also staunches the bleeding with Gaby’s help. She fetches him everything he needs, she even holds the warm towel over Illya’s back while he strings up the needle to bind the wound. Illya’s shaking hasn’t stopped, his breathing is still shaky and Gaby can’t stop herself from running her fingers through his golden hair. It’s slick with sweat but she doesn’t care. She keeps up the action, watching him close those blue eyes with each stroke of her fingers. The American sews him up and Gaby cleans up the wound before Illya is completely asleep. She prays he will open his eyes again and Napoleon hopes so too for Gaby’s own sake. She stays awake for hours. He thinks it’s her insomnia but with the way she paces over the Russian, he knows this is worry. Pure love and worry for the first person to love her outside of the iron curtain.

Napoleon pulls glass shards from Gaby’s feet and she in turn helps clean up the hotel room, blocking off the windows with the quilt from the bed over the curtain rod. The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon when there’s a sharp gasp from the couch. Gaby’s eyes are instantly open, alert. She barely has slept, her hair is a snarled mess when she pushes it out of her face, uncurling from her place in the arm chair. Solo instantly stands from the chair he brought in from the small kitchenette.

Illya is awake when dawn breaks and Gaby’s knees knock together before she crouches down by the couch. Her calloused fingers touch his forehead first and then slip down to his pale lips where he manages the smallest of smiles, “Chop shop girl,” He breathes out her nickname and Gaby lets out a soft sob before nodding. He kisses the pads of her fingers as they linger against his lips and she sinks down to the floor all together.

“It’s going to be okay,” She repeats the words he spoke to her over a year ago in Rome. This time, she believes them, this time it’s going to be okay. They’re going to get through this mission and the next.

**Author's Note:**

> This lovely fic came from a prompt dropped off in my inbox on tumblr. Please, feel free to come and talk Gallya-shop with me. I always take prompts/headcanons and everything else @elektranatchiohs.


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